


this ain't no hot line

by orphan_account



Category: Bandom
Genre: M/M, Phone Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-10-18
Updated: 2008-10-18
Packaged: 2019-11-23 11:27:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18151259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: uh, phonesex? Onlynot.





	this ain't no hot line

**Author's Note:**

> by crayola123

"I'm not going to have phone sex with you."  
  
Pete makes a frustrated sound, tinny and faraway. "But _why_ ," he whines, "Seriously, it is completely _okay_ , I don't get why it's such a big _deal_ \--"  
  
"Pete," Patrick interrupts, "I am not going to ask what you're wearing at any point during this conversation, so you might as well just give _up_. There are hotlines for that kind of thing."  
  
"You're a hot line," Pete says, mildly petulant.  
  
"That doesn't even make _sense_ ," Patrick sighs, with vague disgust. "I'm saying goodbye now. So good _bye_."  
  
Pete makes a protesting sort of grumble and Patrick hangs up, stretching out in the too-large bed. The comforter is a cheap imitation satin, and everything is beige and this side of not-right. Patrick really hates being on opposite sides of the country. He still keeps his razor and toothbrush on his side of the sink, even when Pete's not there. Which sort of sucks.  
  
Patrick jolts at the sharp intrusive vibration of a text, his cell beeping loudly against the wood of the bedside table. The ID flashes No.1 Dickwad!, because Patrick didn't think to change it from when Joe got all mad about Pete pissing in his Nikes.  
  
The text says: _just so u know, i'm not wearing anything at all._  
  
Patrick snorts out a laugh and hits reply, says, _I don't care_ , although he does. _Not interested_ , although he is.  
  
Pete calls him back immediately (something about a separation complex), and barks out, "No but really, I am."  
  
Patrick grins and rolls his eyes all at once, balancing his cell between his ear and shoulder as he rearranges himself on the bed. "I thought I said that this wasn't going to happen."  
  
"But I'm _naked_ ," Pete says in a laugh-ridden whisper, and Patrick's not so sure he's joking. "And I _miss_ you," Pete adds, seriously, and Patrick is certain.  
  
"You know," Patrick says, thoughtfully looking at the magnolia of the ceiling, "Phone sex is like, fifty percent masturbation, anyway."  
  
"Yes, Patrick, well done, you understand the blueprints," Pete says, laughing. Then, voice lower, "Although I like where you're headed."  
  
"Make that eighty." Patrick unbuttons his jeans.  
  
Patrick can hear Pete's lips purse, pausing. "Tell me more about this masturbation fad," Pete pushes, voice a little lower. He pauses again, "And, okay, so I'm not naked, but my jeans are totally undone, if you know what I mean."  
  
The imitation satin is also itchy on Patrick's back, on his forearm where it scrunches. He imagines Pete laid out, like this, in a mirror hotel a few hundred miles away. "It's all the rage," he says, conversationally, and waits until his hand is in before realizing that Pete, Pete bought him these boxers. "All the cool kids are doing it, and I--" Patrick leaves it hanging.  
  
"And you?" Pete finishes, expectantly, and there is a strain in his breath.  
  
Patrick smirks. "…And I am not _doing_ this with you, Pete, so quit it, already."  
  
"Oh my god." Pete exhales in a jumble. "Oh, dude, the hate I have for you is like, is like a total and complete cock block of gigantic proportions, right now. I almost thought about getting a hard on, there, for a second."  
  
"Foolish," Patrick says primly, and the picture, the mental image of Pete, in his head, in his hotel bed with his jeans pushed down, his hand deep in his boxers, eyes shut to the sound of Patrick's voice -- It's exquisite. "The high hopes you have for this are just waiting to be shot down. Are you naked, yet?"  
  
"No," Pete says quickly. "But I could be."  
  
Patrick ignores this, sort of. "I think periods of, what do you call it, chastity, are good for couples," he continues, mildly. "I think this will make us stronger." He tightens his fist, and his dick is definitely hard now, swollen at the image, the thought of Pete twisted in sheets, moaning, licking his palm and grunting at the first satisfying pull.  
  
"I call bullshit," Pete says. "If you were here right now, I'd fuck you. You know that, right? On your hands and knees. This bed is too big for just me. We could spend a lot of time in here."  
  
Patrick bites his lips and says, "Yeah, I'd like that." He jerks himself a little faster, just this side of too-rough. "Phone sex is still not happening, by the way."  
  
Pete's voice is heavier. "It is on my end."  
  
"Not on mine," Patrick counteracts, although it so, so is. Pete's heated eyes, those little grunts he makes when Patrick sucks him off, tight heat and pulls of his fist, slow, then fast, then off, then back down, hands on Pete's thighs to spread him and keep him down. He grunts a little, and says, "I think we shouldn't have sex for a very long time. I think we should have a hands-off at all times policy."  
  
"I think you should have my cock in your mouth right now," Pete says, sudden and harsh, and his breathing is definitely getting ragged. "I love to watch you suck me off. Your lips."  
  
"I hate it," Patrick says quickly, although he doesn't, he loves it, loves the thickness and fullness and wetness of it, Pete's fingers tight in his hair, the sharp jut of his hips against Patrick's hands. "I prefer to take care of myself," and it's such a lie, Pete laughs and grunts at the same time, a strange high-pitched soft combination.  
  
"I'd like to watch," he says, voice deep, and Patrick would like that, too, gasps a little at the thought of it. "Mutual masturbation is a healthy part of any sexual relationship. Would you like to watch me jerk off, Patrick?"  
  
"I'd like to jerk you off," Patrick says, light, on a soft desperate exhale. "Are you touching yourself?"  
  
"No," Pete growls, falsely, with a little moan. "Yes. I'm thinking about fucking you. You close your eyes, sometimes, and I just want to lick your neck when you make those noises, you know. And. And I, fuck, I really like to spread your thighs and suck you off while my fingers are inside you."  
  
Patrick feels maybe like he's caught on fire, like every place his skin is in contact with skin is scorching hot, burning. He murmurs, "Pete," and imagines it, remembers it. "Please," not sure why, just need it, need the contact, need touch, need Pete.  
  
"Would you like that?" Pete is saying, his voice low, but the words quick, and his breathing is ragged. "And afterwards I'd fuck you, so hard you could feel it the next day, and I'd wake you up in the morning with my mouth on your cock, all hot and wet, and-- Fuck, _Patrick_."  
  
And Patrick thinks _yes_ and _please_ , grunts out a tight, "Pete, fuck, _Pete_ ," and his hand is so hot, all sweaty and slick, and he wants to come in Pete's mouth, yes, he does.  
  
Pete is saying, "I want to see you come, oh _god_ , I just want to watch you come right now Patrick, your face," and Pete should do this for a fucking living, the low gravelly drawl of his voice, the way his breath goes up and down, hitched, obvious, and Patrick says, "Yes, _yes_ ," and comes hot and hard into his own fist, his hips rising off the imitation satin, shuddering for a long, blissful moment.  
  
"Oh my god, you just came didn't you, oh my god _Patrick_ ," Pete is hissing, and he sounds delirious and also kind of hilarious, but Patrick can barely breathe enough to laugh at him, just sighs into the phone. Pete groans, "Fuck fuck, Patrick, I'm," until there are far off strangled noises and grunts and Pete's breathing goes all to shit. Patrick listens to him come.  
  
"Well," Patrick says into the silence that follows. "That was educational." His hand is sticky with his own orgasm. He wipes it on the comforter with something that feels like victory.  
  
"I want to see you," Pete says, and he sounds quieter than before, calmer. "I can't wait 'til Tuesday, Patrick. Patrick."  
  
"We are having a hands-off policy," Patrick says, with a tease to his voice. "But until then-" He pauses, pulls his boxers back up, which is sort of gross, but is also kind of nicely familiar in the Peteness of it, "know that I, I miss you, too." He is quiet, almost hesitant when he says it.  
  
Pete smiles, and it is loud and large and unavoidable even from hundreds of miles away. "Patrick?" he asks, coyly. "Are you sure phone sex isn't allowed?"  
  
Patrick smirks and stretches out further, filling all the spaces where Pete should be. "Completely and utterly banned, I'm afraid."  
  
"Huh, okay. I'll go call that hotline now, then."  
  
Patrick laughs, "You're an asshole."  
  
Pete laughs back, his voice low and throaty. "And you should think about changing careers, if you know what I mean."  
  
Patrick hangs up, and feels less alone for it.


End file.
